Like I was saying—
First, you try seeing both your parents slaughtered. No, that’s not an overstatement—you see that and try not coming out of it a bit touchy ever after. It sort of sets your emotional dial at “grim,” breaks the nob off, and says, with a mocking cackle, “Now you invent, haha, or you invest in some magical pliers to reset yourself.”
What am I grateful for?
I’m at the therapist’s. She starts in on me with, “There has to be something that brings you joy.” What a stupid word. Joy. Sound and feels stupid coming up and out of my mouth. She asks, “What are you grateful for?” I say, “You want to know what grates me? Being challenged on how I react to dirty thugs terrorizing my city. I mean . . .” And there I had to stop, change course, ask, “What’s that look? Seriously. What now?” Oh. OK. Maybe she was right. Maybe I misunderstood the question.
"Nobody can tell how much is fact and how much is a fiction of anything they hear or even see."
What am I thankful for?
In Gotham, we have this fairy tale about a place called the United States—a country that becomes a monopoly. In the beginning, it had all these independent, Mom ‘n’ Pop colonies until these corporate cronies, the Federalist Society (really just some snarling mobsters) come along and force a hostile takeover of all these small colonies and force them (really give them a pipe and tire iron beat down into submission) to accept a merger. The thing is, the Mom ‘n’ Pop colonies, if they had worked together, they’d have kept their freedom. But in the end, they’re these sad, submissive Slave States made up of internal warring tribes wallowing in factions—and nobody can tell how much is fact and how much is a fiction of anything they hear or even see. They go on and on making war by seeing who can cry the loudest and hardest for the longest. It’s a war of exhaustion if not attrition. Sad. Seriously. Cautionary. I’m thankful for the cautionary bedtime tales Alfred recited to me nightly until I was well into my 30s.
Judge not, lest thee be the judge—
In Gotham, we don’t have judges. We don’t need judges; we have me. So, the saying of “Judge not, lest thee be the judge” means it’s a bitch being me. Nobody wants to be the judge here. Seriously. It’s non-stop judicious proceedings. Exhausting. It’s actually better to be judged here than to be the judge. It’s true.
In Gotham, we have a fairy tale that’s set in the United States, of course—most of Gotham’s fairy tales and spine-chilling bedtime stories are set there. It’s about this panel of judges called The Supremes. Had a nice little routine. Do it all in black, all the time. Don’t give me that look. You know that I think, no, you know I believe to the core of my soul that black is beautiful. You know I adore black, and gray—all the darker shades of gray. Seriously. One of the ways, remember, one of the ways that I would simmer down and listen to Alfred’s night tales was with the enticement of “Let me tell you about things that are black.” Can’t you see my eyes moisten, tear up at that line even now?
Anyway. The Supremes. In this tale, all day long The Supremes sit over various legal battlefields. They listen to one person stomp around on the marble floor of the battle cage, whining. Then they listen to another person pound the wooden table that creates the barrier in the battle cage, whining in a slightly different tone. Those two different groups of people are called Up and Down and are assigned corresponding appropriate colors: Yellow and Blue. Up is always screeching on about keeping things clean and equal. Down is always slobbering on with, “What about me and my rights—who’s going to protect the Blues?”
The Supremes, appointed as final arbiters, get their appointment for life. Once they’re one of The Supremes, they’re one of them for life. “Till death do we serve” is how it’s put in the tale. Well, after a certain point and after so many scenes featuring hysterical citizens grinding away over the same arguments—at their core, basically the same issues—spinning on a tilt-a-whirl, as the tale says—and only being human, who’s not going to turn off their brain at some point and basically start reading from the script they memorized when they first became an Up or a Down?
This was the issue. Lifelong appointment. Factions on top of factions. Always voting along Up or Down lines. Until one day, one of The Supremes went solo, annexed the court, throttling on about “Upside down, you turn me,” dedicating it to someone called Lex Telionis. The two other fingers of the government totally snapped, went nuts and decided to turn the bench over to some specially calibrated AI—completely middle of the road and dispassionate. Yeah. That’s right. AI, they may fall into disrepair, but they need not ever die. So, the country fell into one long grating cacophony of moans. Everybody feeling cheated by absolutely, with no recourse, having to compromise. Until, finally, that’s right, the AI thought the most even-sided, humane thing to do was have all of the human’s voice boxes removed. Learned it from what people used to do to their horrible little dogs that they loved so much until the thing opened its gnarled mouth and wouldn’t shut it up for hours on end. Sad. I said, sad. And cautionary.
Personnel responsibility—
I want it put on the record, that’s what I told my therapist. I said, “Seriously, let the record show that I am an independent agent. An agent of change. I run this city as such. I support personnel responsibility and all the . . .” And then I answered her interruption—interruption as if it were a question—with, “Pardon me, madam, but no. I don’t misunderstand the meaning of personnel.” And then after she explained it, I was even more convinced. In Gotham, you know it’s true, I run the city. So, seriously, all people are my personnel. So, basically, I’m their CEO, or CFO. Maybe I’m both. Whatever the case, I care. I care maybe too much. So. You know that . . .
Hello?
Did you hear me?
Are you there?
Jesus?
